


Muscle Memory

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' thoughts on the Woman who beat him at his own game leads to a betrayal by both his mind and his body. A semi-companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1006188">Olfactory</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an Anon on Tumblr, who requested "Sherlock decides to experiment with masturbation while thinking about The Woman." Not sure it came out exactly the way you expected, dear anon, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

His coat smelled of her.

And despite his research the last three days, Sherlock still had not figured out what specific scent lingered in the threads of his coat. He insisted he wanted to know the scent of her perfume, to add it to the collection of perfumes and scents on his website, but he refused to acknowledge that he had begun to think of it as Her scent. Irene Adler. The Woman.

He was within a block of Baker Street, having sworn he'd caught her scent in John's tea earlier and decided he needed to clear his head, to let the bracing London afternoon wash away the scent that had lodged itself in his nose and brain. He was on his way back to the flat, having set his course to include walking past a group of hotel valets who took their cigarette breaks aroud this time, when a particularly unexpected gust of wind pushed his upturned collar into his face at the same moment he inhaled, and his nose and brain were full of Her again.

His coat smelled of Her, of vanilla and jasmine and something mysterious, and with the scent came the unbidden flood of information about Her, information that he had been sifting through, trying to discard, trying to delete. 32-24-34. The combination to her safe. The measurements of her bust, waist, and hips. The way the gild of her wallpaper reflected subtle golden light against the pale skin of her stomach as she straddled him. The cool touch of her fingertips near his throat--

Sherlock quickened his steps, as if he could outpace the speed of his own recollection. It was an idiotic idea, utterly stupid, utterly _ordinary_ , yet he hurried on. Hurried up the stairs to the familiar flat, to surround himself with familiar scents, familiar sights, rather than the scent of Her, the glint of light against her earring, the red of her lipstick, the way he could not _see_ her the way he saw everyone and everything else.--

\-- He knocked over a petri dish in his haste to sweep into the sanctuary of his flat, but even within the comfortable confines of 221B, Sherlock found that tension did not leave him, did not seep out of him upon being surrounded by the familiar objects and boundaries of his life. In fact, the warmth of the flat merely made it more obvious what the winter air had hidden, that his body _ached_ at the thought of her, that the irritating physical need for release had made itself manifest, and that there was absolutely no hope of simply waiting until sleep and exhaustion reset the transport that was his body.

His coat still around him, her scent in his nose and in his mind, continuing the flood of images, the thoughts of her, Sherlock swept blindly out of the sitting room and into his bedroom, all but slamming the door with his irritation at the betrayal of both mind and transport. He flung himself into bed, all petulance and painful desire, and tried to ignore his brain, willed himself, a useless endeavor, to stop _thinking_.

No, She remained in his mind, Her scent in his nostrils. Vanilla, jasmine, something smoky and mysterious. The way her elaborate coiffure drew his attention, dared his eyes to follow the weaving of the intricate curls. Her nails blood red, the same shade as her lipstick. _Blood_.--

Blood that now throbbed within his insistent erection, and Sherlock growled with frustration, roughly unzipping his trousers, undoing his belt, the leather slick and cold against his fingers--

The leather of her riding crop against his cheek, the sting of its strike, the burst of blinding pain, the shock of her having actually hit him, the feel of the drug hitting his bloodstream and his brain.

He groaned, as his fingers freed his erection from the confines of his trousers, the cool touch reminding him of her hands, of _Her_ and his hand tightened, ringing his arousal and sliding down the length of aching flesh.

He moved clumsily at first, having studied the theory, known how the callouses of a man's hand gave away his preferences and the amount he masturbated, but rarely felt the need to put theory into practice. But his thoughts spurred him on, the madness and frustration of _Her_ , of defeat, of not _knowing_ , drove him to gasping want as he remembered the weight of her foot against his chest, pinning him to the smooth worn floor, the way the world _spun_ around him and the only thing that stood still was _Her_.

 

_This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you._

 

The force of his orgasm blinded him, and he arched off the bed as pleasure flooded him, as he spent himself thinking of her parting words, of the shape of her lips and the weight of her body pinning him down. The echo of his own cry rang in his ears, and it was nearly a minute before he could hear his panting breaths over the roar of his pounding blood. He felt weak, shaky, shak _en_ by his release, and reached over blindly to find a towel, a discarded shirt, _something_ with which to clean himself off. As he groped, he shifted, and a now-familiar moan issued from his coat pocket. Another text.

 

_You looked sexy on Crimewatch._


End file.
